


(I'm) Stranded

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [119]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Existential Angst, Gen, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Songfic, cuddlecore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: Rip it up and start again.





	(I'm) Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: snacky, snarky ace Twelvedole

It’s 1977 and the humans have sent a probe into space. A clumsy but determined thing, and the fact that it won’t be found until well after Earth’s first contact with an off-world sentient species doesn’t detract from the charm, the hope. Humanity at its best, blindly free-kicking a record through the local solar system. Their bright-tailed, bushy-eyed hello: maths, shops, families, an elephant, Ann Druyan, Johnny B. Goode.

The children are showing up after summer break with short hair and tight trousers, their stoned ambivalence and vague peace-n-love positivity traded for nervy anger and taut panic. Elvis Presley is dead, and Groucho Marx is dead, and Robert Hillsborough is dead. The silver Jubilee, and a world at war. Half of everything is ending and half of everything is starting over.

 

 

It’s 1977 and it’s been a decade, give or take. Since the Doctor came here, with their ward and their assistant and their box and their forged credentials and their small selection of framed candid photographs. Everything is changing and nothing has changed. It’s been years since any substantial communication has emerged from the vault. They’re teaching a semi-official course on computer programming, opening up their office with its bulky, imposing Commodore having shoved most of the furniture aside; they’re lecturing about Charlotte Bronte, or loss, or love, or memory, or one of those. And they feel _old_ , somehow.

Elsewhere: they are on the island of Fang Rock, attending to a malfunctioning lighthouse. Loss, or love, or one of those.

 

 

They take a fistful of forged money and a somewhat larger-on-the-inside satchel into town. There’s a record shop, and it’s not that they feel old, not really, just acutely out of place - it’s been so long since they spent enough time in one place to remember how much they don’t belong. The children are skittish, colorful, proudly defiant. There’s a record shop: the Doctor swipes up LPs on instinct, clutching them to their chest.

They sit in a listening booth, antsy, waiting for the vocals to come in. _Don’t you wonder sometimes ‘bout sound and vision?_

 

 

“I don’t like it,” Nardole says, before the Doctor drops the needle.

“You never do.” Nardole never does like it. Nardole is a confirmed Fleetwood Mac fan. “Couldn’t you at least wait to listen before forming an opinion?”

“That’s a waste of time. The previous eleven occasions you went into town to purchase one of those disc things, you came back with something awful. Can’t believe I ever thought jazz was the worst you could subject me to.” Despite the complaining, Nardole is drifting off the arm of the couch and onto the couch proper.

The Doctor shambles towards the couch, to where they’d meant to sit, and they’re not gonna _not_ sit there just because there’s a cyborg nanny half-occupying it. “But you know why I like it. And why you hate it.”

Nardole stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. “Aside from how objectively crap it is?”

“Mmm.” They’ve got more than enough time to humor him.

“Makes you feel like leaving, doesn’t it? Makes you remember you don’t want to be here.”

Which they don’t. Or yes, it does. But they’re here, regardless, and they lean in, just a bit, against Nardole’s side, as Tom Verlaine sings _Look here junior, don’t you be so happy, and for heaven’s sake, don’t you be so sad._

It’s 1977 and the Doctor is nervy, lost, high. The world is ending although it never manages to actually finally end, and the Earth has sent a photograph of a crocodile into outer space. They lecture about maths and physics and Bowie’s relative influence on Iggy Pop between _The Idiot_ and _Lust for Life_. The vault is still silent. Rip it up, start again. He’s in love with Janie Jones, he don’t like his boring job, no.

Nardole might complain but he’s still their best source for anything other than ditch weed. Glass houses, rock-throwing, etc. They drop the needle and breathe in and pass it off.

“It’s artisanal,” Nardole says, through a mild coughing fit. “You’re welcome. And I hate this song.”

“You always do.” They slump down next to him. “Wanna get kebabs?”

“Obviously. Only they’re so far away.” Nardole stares with a great deal of wonder and a small amount of confusion at the joint ashing towards his fingertips.

They’ve got a clip, somewhere in one of their many pockets. They don’t bother looking for it, sinking bonelessly into the couch instead. “You go. I’ll pay you back.”

“You never do,” he says. He ruffles the Doctor’s hair, aims mostly accurately for the ashtray, sways up to his feet. “Chips?”

“Have you met me?” They slide into where Nardole just was, nuzzling their forehead against the warm fabric, before awkwardly rolling off the couch and onto their feet, heading towards the haphazard stack of records by the hi-fi.

Nardole makes a face. The Doctor drops the needle. _I was saying ‘let me out of here’ before I was even born._

“Extra vinegar and salt, got it,” Nardole says, and stumbles through the door, the hallway and staircase, out to the street below. The cold air hits him like a freight train. He can still hear the music coming from the office above. _Am I moving in a straight line, am I moving in a straight line? Oh, it’s unlust and the one-dimensional boy._

He keeps walking, to the kebab shop; letting the music and the world drift away behind him, the sidewalk passing below.


End file.
